


When the Weather Comes

by the_nerd_word



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Grief/Mourning, Haku Lives, I'm kicking canon in its ass, Kirigakure | Hidden Mist Village, Multi, Rating May Change, Tags will be updated, at first, haku as an actual hunter-nin, kakashi's chidori complex saves the day for once lol, non-chronological chapters, pre- and post-wave mission, the undertaker squad, then a lot of ass kicking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-25 16:47:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20727494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_nerd_word/pseuds/the_nerd_word
Summary: There’s warmth against Haku’s right cheek. The air is moist and chilling, and it burns down his throat and through his lungs when he gasps a sudden breath, but that unfamiliar warmth is ultimately what draws him back into awareness.(In which Kakashi Hatake doesn't strike true in Wave, and Haku lives but Zabuza doesn't. Life as a real hunter-nin doesn’t prove to be easy, but at least Haku has his memories to get him through.)





	1. That Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wenwen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wenwen/gifts).

> what's UP i'm back with another embarrassing naruto fic lol
> 
> Mind the tags, I'm not pulling punches. Updates might be sporadic but I do have Ideas™ for this fic. Mostly vignettes with plot here and there. 
> 
> Inspired by wenwen's superb characterization of Zabuza and Haku in their fic [ Rise](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14246328/chapters/32852958), which is insanely detailed and good and definitely worth reading.

There’s warmth against Haku’s right cheek. The air is moist and chilling, and it burns down his throat and through his lungs when he gasps a sudden breath, but that unfamiliar warmth is ultimately what draws him back into awareness.

  
Instinct has Haku scrambling backward, but some strange clutch—of something dark, something unfathomable and sickening and all too recently intimate—has twined its way through his muscles, stealing equilibrium and coordination alike. Searing pain cascades upon his consciousness like a heady drug. His movements are awkward, and his vision is blurry until suddenly it is _not_, and his entire world comes crashing down with pinpoint clarity as Haku sees—_sees_—

  
“Zabuza,” he chokes out, the name a broken groan.

  
And Zabuza’s eyes stare back with an expression Haku can’t begin to decipher right now, because they’re glassy and unblinking and so bereft of all their light, of all the passion and anger and amusement and pride Zazuba has always viewed the world through. There’s nothing there but a nameless sheen.

  
A pool of blood has formed around Zabuza’s prone body. Its edges have already begun to congeal, the process hastened by the quickly descending temperature. Haku lifts a weak hand toward his master, his only source of hope and belonging, and agony shoots along his entire torso, a steady pulse in contrast to the numbness in his fingertips. Swallowing down bile, he tries to tug Zabuza toward him, because if they can just get away, if Haku can get them someplace safe, then maybe the situation won’t feel so bleak. But Zabuza’s dislocated arm pops uselessly and he ends up lying on his side, and suddenly it’s all Haku can do to breathe—breathe and stare stare stare at the gore littered liberally across Zabuza’s pocked back, at the shards of bone protruding with chunks of pink lung like little flags marking a surrender, the suggestive curve of a too-red heart somehow spared of traumatic insult, the indifferent twitching of costal muscles who don’t yet realize they’re dead, browning blood and graying skin and a smell like—

  
“—ku! Haku!”

  
He flinches as he realizes he’s not alone, not at all. The Konoha shinobi are standing a few yards away, and about a dozen armed men are further down the bridge. They’re _right there_, and somehow Haku didn’t even notice until now. His gaze nervously flitters over the Konoha team, darting from green to orange to blue to pink and back again, unable to truly focus on the grimy yet garish spectrum as awareness sets in.

  
Naruto’s expression is pinched with worry and confusion. He practically vibrates where he stands, like he’s not sure where to put what’s left of his energy at this point. “Haku,” he says again, like saying his name will do anything to help. When Haku just continues to sit there, weighed down with an uncharacteristic sense of helplessness, Naruto puffs up like he’s about to rush forward, but a quick hand from Kakashi stops him.

  
“The fight’s over,” Kakashi states quietly, his words somehow both commanding and imploring as he watches Haku. There’s wariness in his expression, the kind of caution typically reserved for unknown threats. For a moment, Haku thinks all of this must be the copy-nin’s fault, that Haku’s desperate attempt to shield his master _wasn’t good enough_, and Kakashi’s ear-splitting (skin-splitting, muscle-splitting, bone-splitting) chidori was just the introduction to a final, fatal assault. Yet Haku’s gaze is drawn to the haphazard pile of weapons near their feet, to crude spears, a katana, and a chipped bisentō, all coated in the same red that halos Zabuza’s prone figure. The nearby lingering mercenaries hold similar weapons in too-tight grips.

  
And suddenly, Haku thinks he knows what happened.

  
“Gatō?” he croaks, barely managing not to flinch at how broken his own voice sounds.

  
“Dead,” Kakashi confirms. “Zabuza made sure.”

  
Somehow, the knowledge doesn’t make him feel any better. As he continues to sit there, a single drop of blood strikes the cement; Haku queasily realizes he can see the white of his own ruined collarbone in his periphery. The wound itself feels so, so cold, even if the rest of him feels like he’s burning on the inside, about to smoke and sizzle and roast until he’s nothing. He wonders if that means he’s dying. He wonders if he hopes so.

  
“He cried for you,” Naruto suddenly blurts.

  
“Naruto,” Kakashi admonishes sharply, but that doesn’t stop the boy. If anything, it spurs him on.

  
“He cared about you,” Naruto insists, voice too loud and expression too open despite the way he cringes away from Sasuke’s quick shove. “He wanted to lie next to you! At the—the end. He cared!”

  
“Naruto, _enough_,” Kakashi orders. Then, in a gentler way, he explains, “You’re just being cruel.”

  
Naruto scrunches his whole face at this, turning toward his teammates for clarification, but Sasuke is staring at the ground and Sakura is shaking her head and crying. “Huh?”

  
Nobody answers, and Haku just—he _can’t_ anymore. He failed. Zabuza is dead, and Haku so wishes it was him lying lifelessly on the ground instead.

  
He drops his gaze, stricken with grief and the need to look at his master for guidance. A low whistle sounds as the wind picks up, carrying heavier and heavier amounts of snow, and still there is nothing of solace to find. Haku exhales sharply through his nose, trying his very best not to shame Zabuza any further with senseless displays of emotion, but there’s a pressure building in his throat, and between this and the fire under his skin and the ice in his gaping shoulder, he thinks he’s about to snap.

  
He reaches for his chakra, ignoring the way Kakashi palms a kunai in response, and to his horror discovers he’s nearly depleted. The wisps of chakra remaining circulate around his wound like birds of prey circling carrion. Haku raises his fingers, shivering all over now, and wonders if Zabuza would approve of this act of selfishness as a shinobi.

  
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. To his once-savior, to the Konoha team that witnessed a broken tool, to the indifferent air around them. He pours what’s left of his chakra into a single ice mirror and lets himself fall into its transporting reflection.

  
Haku knows that all he leaves behind is a broken promise and snow.


	2. Three Weeks After

Haku knows he’s being hunted. He knows this the same way he knows there are consequences to every action.

Foreign chakra occasionally seeps into the air around him as he travels through southern Fire country, caressing his senses like a promise, feeding him paranoia and nightmares in the rare moments he's able to come by sleep. It is a delicate kind of threat, like oleander before that first skipped beat. Haku spends a days fleeing from half-sensed feelings, dedicated to imagining which village insignia is at his heels. 

And just as he starts to wonder if he should draw his stalkers to light, they come to him. 

Haku's sitting alone at the counter of a dingy, outdoor bar, the mouth of an alley yawning wide toward his right when it happens. His hair is mussed despite his blind efforts to comb it with his fingers, clothes river-washed but stiff, and he imagines his cheeks appear gaunter than they should. Now more than ever, Haku is aware of the privilege necessary in maintaining an image, and a part of him mourns what he had worked so hard to cultivate. Despite the lack of tidiness, he keeps his shoulders back and his posture straight. The line his jaw is perfectly parallel to the dinged bar top as he gracefully lifts a steaming cup of green tea to his lips and lightly blows. The evening, for the moment, is uneventful. 

Haku does not startle when a puddle in the adjacent street abruptly shimmers and flows upward into the shape of a man, but it is a near thing. This, like the fleeting impressions of chakra that have been following him lately, is partially expected at this point. He just wishes he had been better at hiding his tracks. 

Without a word, the strange shinobi walks over and takes the stool to Haku's right, effectively blocking the closest exit point. Although Haku cannot sense others, he has no doubt backup is nearby. The shinobi motions to the single employee halfheartedly rinsing dishes at the other end and to the back of the bar, who walks over with a permanent frown. "I'll have white tea, please.”

The employee grunts and shakes his head. "Don't got it. You want sake?"

Blinking, the shinobi casually glances over at Haku's drink, then looks back to the employee. "No. Green tea is fine."

With a scowl, the employee pointedly holds out his hand palm-up. "Not you too," he snipes. "It's a _bar._"

Unrepentant, the shinobi drops a few coins into the expectant hand and settles back to wait.

Haku feels his heart somewhere in his throat when it's just the two of them, the silence stretching on and on. He stares at the shinobi's profile from corners of his eyes, taking in the long hairstyle, the drab coloring of an ANBU uniform and, resting snugly against the shinobi's forehead, a Kiri hitai-ate. (Funny, though, how it's the _scar_ trailing across the shinobi's left eye that makes Haku's breath falter, that brings to mind memories of screeching lightning, orange chakra, and Zabuza's battle-torn body.) It takes a moment to make sure his hands will remain steady before he checks the temperature of his tea again, careful to keep his movements slow and predictable. And still, the silence lingers.

Thankfully, Haku is well acquainted with patience.

"You look surprisingly well," the shinobi says suddenly, "for someone rumored to have been hit by one of Sharingan Kakashi's infamous chidori." Although the tone is casual, it doesn't carry beyond their place at the bar. 

Haku inclines his head a fraction, ignoring the urge to touch the tender skin above his clavicle. "I was lucky," he murmurs. 

"Is that all?"

Haku raises his cup and takes a sip, grimacing mildly as his tongue is burnt. "Am I correct in assuming you're here for me, hunter-san?" 

"Hm," the shinobi voices noncommittally, seemingly unconcerned by the guess at his affiliation. "Yes, but probably not in the way you're thinking." The employee chooses that moment to return with a cup of green tea, and although his expression is sour, he doesn't say anything before retreating to the back. Once they're alone again, the shinobi peers into his drink before continuing. "News from Wave traveled quickly," he explains. "Two Kiri missing-nin, one a famed Seven Swordsman, clashed against a Konoha genin team led by Hatake Kakashi, only to be betrayed by the very mobster who hired them. It's quite the story." 

"Exaggerated by now, I'm sure," Haku demurs.

"Perhaps, but nevertheless..." He pauses, evidently taking a moment to choose his words, then drinks some of his tea; the shinobi doesn't appear bothered by the heat, and Haku wonders, as he primly takes his own sip, if that really is the case or merely an act. "Lord Mizukage is intrigued by what he has heard."

The unease nestled in the pit of Haku's stomach begins to swell, stretching until he can feel it with every careful, measured breath. "Could you please elaborate?"

Although the shinobi continues to stare straight at his own drink, Haku swears he can feel the weight of his gaze. Idly, he realizes he doesn't have a plan for any of this. It is almost embarrassing, _should be _embarrassing, but in all honestly he hasn't had a real plan since the bridge. 

"He wonders if you might be interested in making efforts to... restore your honor."

"Pardon my confusion," Haku murmurs, keeping his tone neutral, "but I have always been under the impression that Lord Yagura feels intolerantly toward those he considers traitors."

The shinobi huffs a breath through his nose, and his next words almost sound wry. "Ordinarily, I would say you're correct. But you were only thirteen when you fled with Momochi, and the reputation you have gained since Waves is... considerable." He takes another sip of tea, then taps a finger against the rim of the cup once, twice, three times. "You're already well outside of Water's borders; your assignments would simply revolve around this. Consider it an opportunity to prove your loyalty."

And Haku finally feels more than just skintight anxiety and exhaustion, feels a rush of anger like a red-hot vice around his lungs, constricting and scalding and damning. He wants to snap that he _has_ _know__n_ loyalty, that his apprenticeship to Zabuza was practically an extension of the man's dreams for a better Kirigakure, that they both suffered and bled for a country who had considered them only _low caste, _that he himself was a bloodline abomination in Kiri's fear-mongering eyes. Instead, he briefly closes his eyes and takes a slow breath, then counts to five before he allows himself another.

"Take up the mantle of the Oinin Butai," the shinobi continues, either unaware of Haku's turmoil or ignoring it. "Wear the mask, for real this time—and don't think we didn't hear about your little stunt in Waves, by the way." He offers a smirk, then looks serious once more. "Bring traitors to justice, and keep Kiri secrets out of foreign hands."

Haku finds he doesn't want to finish his tea. "This is... a lot to consider," he answers as diplomatically as possible. "I assume this is the better of two options?"

The shinobi nods solemnly, turning to face Haku directly for the first time, and Haku forces himself not to lean away. "I would view this a second chance, rather than an ultimatum. You're young, and talented. Keep a level head on your shoulders, take the years to prove yourself, and I'm sure one day, you'll earn the right to come back home."

Haku tries to picture home and only recalls towering shards of ice and his poor mother's corpse. "Perhaps."

The shinobi eyes him for a moment as though searching for something, his own drink forgotten. "You'll receive financial support, stipends every three months. And, of course, you'll be expected to report in on a regular basis. There will be zero leniency for that."

Haku nods vaguely, tense like an animal in a trap. "And my official affiliation?"

"Officially, you won't have one. Outside of Lord Mizukage, only the Undertaker Squad will know of your role."

Logically, Haku is aware that refusal will equate to a death sentence. The hunter-nin might not be willing to make a public scene in a southern Fire country town, but there's no guarantee. And even if Haku manages to walk away tonight, he will continue to be hunted, tracked like prey in a tiring game of chase until he missteps, then disposed of as if he never existed. For all that he is supposed to be a kekkei genkai prodigy, he cannot hope to win a fight against the Oinin Butai alone. Still though, Haku loathes the idea of working for Yagura, of keeping to the shadows at the man's blood-soaked beck and call. He wonders what Zabuza would say. "Fuck that fucking pigfucker," probably. Or "The creepy sonnova bitch can suck my fat dick." Something like that, he's sure. 

(The thought almost makes Haku smile. Almost.)

But Zabuza was smart, and he knew how to play the long game even if he hated the rules. Sometimes, he used to say, being alive is all you could fucking plan for. A gig like this would provide Haku with funds, limited observation, and the chance to travel. He'd have to be self-reliant, and the missions were sure to be grueling, but he would only become all the stronger for it. And if he _did_ ever return to Kirigakure, maybe he'd get a chance at Yagura's head. 

"I accept," he answers pleasantly, hoping he sounds and looks more confident than he feels.

The breath the shinobi lets out isn't audible, but the line of his shoulders relaxes a little when he exhales. "Lord Mizukage will be pleased." He reaches into a pouch and retrieves a short scroll. "Take this. Sealed inside are the details of your first assignment, some money, a small medical kit, and an unregistered mask. Unaffiliated with Kirigakure's symbol, of course."

Haku hums in acknowledgement, curious despite himself. He takes the scroll, the chipped quality of his nail polish stark against the white of the paper. "Will I be reporting to you, hunter-san?"

"The name's Tsurugi," the shinobi clarifies, returning Haku's subsequent, courteous nod. "And on occasion, I imagine. Otherwise, it'll be my—our—superior." 

When Tsurugi doesn't offer any additional details, Haku tucks the scroll into a pocket. "Is there anything else, Tsurugi-san?"

"Yeah. You're expected to make your first report one month from today in Harbor City. The Crested Stork Inn, sunset. Failure to show will result in immediate termination of the Mizukage's leniency."

"I understand," Haku says, trying not to frown.

Tsurugi rubs a hand across his temple then looks Haku over from head to toe, not unkindly. "Most people like us don't get second chances."

"Yes, Tsurugi-san."

At that, Tsurugi outright snorts, taking the deferment for what it is. He looks amused, though. "How did you survive that chidori anyway?"

"Sometimes, right after I wake up, I'm still not sure I did," Haku tells him honestly. 

"Hell," Tsurugi starts, but instead of saying anything more he just nods. 

Haku appreciates the sentiment. 


End file.
